


Sex Holiday

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Dreams, F/M, M/M, Shameless Smut, Thoughts of infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1316623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn't done this in years, hadn't ever needed to with Mary, but the urge is there and it won't be denied now. He tosses the sheet further aside and lets her lean over him. He closes his eyes and let his imagination take over...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little fantasy play I dreamed up. Takes place during John and Mary's Honeymoon. Poor guilty John.

_They're in the flat, Baker Street. It's hot, he knows because the windows are open, the curtains billowing in the breeze. If there are scents on the wind John is unaware of them. His focus is laser guided to one location, the leather chair across from his own, which contains one Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective. His feet are bare. It seems an important clue._

_"Well? What else?" Sherlock asks in his deepest baritone vibrato._

_John looks up. He is unsure of the answer. He looks down at his hands, which are suddenly holding a case file. He looks back up at Sherlock, worry and uncertainty in his eyes. What was he supposed to say? It was important, this he knew, very important. Think, John, think. What was the correct answer?_

_The answer comes to him without warning, slips from his lips like wine from the bottle. "The ladder was missing from the shed."_

_A small smile. "Very good." He leans forward slowly. John watches, transfixed, as Sherlock begins removing his red silk oxford. First he unrolls the cuffs, then the buttons come loose, then he shrugs out of it like a snake shedding skin. This is a game, John realizes. For every correct answer, an article of clothing disappears. The expanse of pale flesh exposed causes John's gaze to flit back and forth, eyes unable to focus on one area for long. Clavicle, Thoracic Cage, Sternum, Navel. Part of his mind fixates on the smoothness of his flatmates shoulders, another on the file in his hands. He should pay attention to it, he thinks. How else would he continue to win this very important game?_

_"And where did the murder weapon go?"_

_John swallows, his nerves are shot. Memories of school boy days flit across his mind briefly. Did he study hard enough for this? The file feels weighted in his hands. He looks down, attempts to gather clues. Again, the answer appears from thin air._

_"They swallowed it. The incision was minuscule, most likely from a pen knife. They wrapped it in a small plastic bag and swallowed it."_

_A wide grin splits Sherlock's face, pride in John and excitement in the game. John feels equally excited by both._

_"Excellent, John. You're doing marvelously." He slides an elegant hand over his lap and his trouser buttons pop. John's pulse hammers in his veins as Sherlock lifts up enough to push the black material down to the floor. Only his pants remain. So. One question left._

_"It was the son," he answers before Sherlock can even ask. He's in a rush to see everything. It is imperative that he see everything._

_Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. "Tell me how you know."_

_John growls impatiently._

_"Tell me how you know," he repeats, this time he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs invitingly._

_"He had books on survival technique in his room. Likely that he would carry a pen knife on his person. He had motive, Father/Son rivalry with the Mother. And he got up to use the restroom six times while police questioned the Mother."_

_"I'm so proud of you. My Dear Watson," he says with another smile. He hooks his thumbs further into his pants and pulls, excruciatingly slow. John feels as if his heart will beat right out of his chest._

_"John...My Dear John..." He whispers._

_"John, John, John...."_

 

"JOHN!" Mary yells. John bolts upright, heart beat loud and obvious to his own ears. Guilt swamps him immediately, not a moment of the dream lost in transition to wakefulness. He looks to Mary, worry evident on her face.

"Are you all right? You were thrashing and whimpering. You had me scared to death."

"Sorry," he croaks out. "Sorry, Love," he tries again.

She pats his arm. "S'all right. Just had me worried, is all. You want to talk about it?" She assumes he's been dreaming of the War. 

A laugh escapes unbidden. No, he certainly doesn't want to talk about it. This hadn't happened to him in years. Why now? He throws the sheet off of him, it has suddenly taken on the weight of a wool blanket, and the evidence of his nocturnal vision becomes obvious. It catches Mary's attention right away, because why wouldn't it? He'd not dressed since they had laid down to sleep earlier in the night.

"Again?" She asks with a cheeky grin. "Just what were you dreaming about, John Watson?"

His mouth gapes like a fish out of water. "I..uh..."

"I'm still sore from earlier, but Hell, who could pass up the opportunity? Just look at him. He's clearly suffering." She pouts sympathetically at his straining erection. "Don't you worry about a thing. Mrs. Watson is on the case."

Oh, what a thing to say at a time like this. John opens his mouth to stop her but really, what can he say? 'I'm much too hung up on my Best Man at the moment, could you give me a minute to work this out on my own?' No, bastard that he is, he's going to let her blow him. He hasn't done this in years, hadn't ever needed to with Mary, but the urge is there and it won't be denied now. He tosses the sheet further aside and lets her lean over him. He closes his eyes and lets his imagination take over. It's like riding a bike. Hands too small, hair too straight, mouth not wide enough, doesn't matter. John Watson can make Sherlock Holmes out of the most incongruous of partners. Just takes a little imagination is all. 

He stretches out, lets a moan escape when Mary takes him in hand, and then lets the fantasy take over.

Back at Baker Street. Sherlock has finally removed the briefs, they are laying on the carpet between them. Normally he would let the fantasy play out a little longer, draw out the visual foreplay of it all, but it's past time for that. In his mind he sees Sherlock fall to his knees in front of John's chair. Never, not in all his most rushed fumblings, has he skipped over the kiss, and he doesn't now. They come together like two flints struck against one another, fire being the only possible outcome. Chemistry was never their problem. He imagines the way Sherlock's lips would fit against his, interlocking pieces made to connect. The way he would eventually take over, by pulling at Sherlock's curls, roughly but with purpose. A deep moan would escape his throat at the playful tug and John would do it again just to hear the sound. Sherlock's throat would be sensitive. In John's mind it tastes like wood smoke and feels like miles of silk laid out for Kings. Eventually they are rutting against each other, and because this is John's fantasy, he is naked in an instant. Some fantasies had been different, he might let Sherlock undress him, but he's too keyed up now to wait. The tables turn on him, as they sometimes do when dealing with Sherlock. He finds himself flat on his back in front of the fireplace. Sherlock mouths a trail from his chin to his hipbone, all the while John has a death grip on his head, as if he let go he would suddenly disappear. He doesn't. Not in John's fantasies. When he finally wraps that beautiful mouth around John's cock, it's like a fuse is lit under his skin. Mary has probably been busy at it for minutes now but suddenly his back is bowed in the bed and he's sobbing, crying out in pleasure. Curls wrap around his fingers, testosterone laden sweat drips onto his thighs, the deepest, darkest, most forbidden moan escapes from the man on top of him and John knows in his heart that this is where he wants to be. Where he was meant to be. Always.

"Oh, Christ!" He shouts to the ceiling. His eyes stay slammed shut and he imagines coming down Sherlock's throat in greedy abandon. Every drop disappears and clear blue eyes look up at him in a lustful haze. Sparks continue to fire off all over his body, even after the scene dissipates in a puff of smoke.  He comes hardest when it's with Sherlock, even if it's only in his head. Mary hauls herself up his body and throws herself down onto his chest.

"Damn, I'm good," she says with a grin. "That was beautiful, Darling." 

"Yes, it was," he whispers and draws on years of practice to keep the guilt off his face.

"And what do we say," she drawls.

He smiles. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says with an answering smile. "You can make it up to me in the morning. I'm beat. G'night, Dear."

"Good night." He curls around her, holds her to his chest and is glad that she falls asleep quickly because he can't stop the tear that has escaped. It feels like a bad omen when it slides down his cheek and lands in her hair. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, had to throw a bit of angst in there at the end. Because, lets face it, John is fighting it so hard. Just give up, Darling. Did you enjoy the story though? I know I did. Sweaty sheets and hot fantasy blow jobs are the best. As always, thanks for reading and feel free to comment. Find me on Tumblr at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


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